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Industrial Relations 







m I 




The working: class and the employing class have nothing 
In common. There can be no peace so long as hunger and 
"want are found among millions of working people and the 
Tfew, who make up the employing class, have all the good 
things of life. 

Between these two classes a struggle must go on until 
the workers of the world organize as a class, take posses- 
sion of the earth and the machinery of production, and 
abolish the wage systetia.>- ; , 

We find that the centering of management of the indus- 
tries into fewer and fewer hands makes the trade unions 
unable to cope with the ever growing power of the employ- 
ing class. The trade unions foster a state of affairs which 
allows one set of workers to be pitted against another set 
of workers in the same industry, thereby helping defeat 
pne another in wage wars. Moreover, the trade unions aid 
i j^e employing class to mislead the workers into the be- 
f t A>^i that the working class have interests in common with 
tneir employers. 

These conditions can be changed and the interest of the 
working class upheld only by an organization formed in 
such a way that all its members in any one industry, or 
in all industries if necessary, cease work whenever a strike 
B or lockout is on in any department thereof, thus making 
j-cn injury to one an injury to all. 

Instead of the conservative motto, "A fair day's wage 
^Tofk fair day's work," we must inscribe on our banner the 
Evolutionary watchword, "Abolition of the wage system." 
"Wa'u , " r "'* ' •■ > *■ " ,• «~ " J • - > ' *• v • . •>», 
• II is the historic mission of the working class to do away 
t~^ftfr&pitalism. The army of production must be organ- 
ic izeSjnot only for the every-day struggle with capitalists, 
but also to carry on production when capitalism shall have 
been overthrown. By organizing industrially we are form- 
ing the structure of the new society within the shell of 
the old. if*x.\ . v . ' 







OCTOBER, 1919 

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A Call to Action - 

All Hell Can't Stop Us - \* 

Are You a Wobbly 54 

Casey Jones - - 

Dixie * 4 

Dollar Alarm Clock, The - - 23 

Don't Take My Papa Away from Me 06 

Dream of a Millionaire, The - 28 

Dump the Bosses off your Back 46 

Everett County Jail, The - - J? 

Everybody's Joining It ----- *j 

Farewell Frank 

Farewell Joe - - 

Fifty Thousand Lumberjacks j>» 

Gone are the Days — — 

Harvest War Song \ L 

Hold the Fort - 24 

In Memory — f J 

L W. W. Prison Song - 11 

Internationale, The - ° 

Joe Hills Last Will °0 

John Golden and the Lawrence Strike 48 

May Day Sony: J" 

Marseillaise, The Workers 10 

Message From Over the Sea, The ob 

Mr. Block - 

Onward, "One Big Union!" - o7 

One Big Industrial Union - 08 

Organize ... - v- °3 

Overalls and Snuff - j>T 

Paint 'Er R-d " 

Parasites, The J* 

Preacher and the Slave, The - 20 

Rebel Girl, The - 4 £ 

Red Flag, The - - 7 

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Remember 5 

Scissor B 11 15 

Solidarity Forever 29 

There is Power in a Union 22 

Tramp, The 17 

Up From Your Knee3 45 

Wage Workers, Come Join the Union 43 

We Have Fed You All for a Thousand Years 27 

We Will Sing One Song 40 

We're Ready 41 

Whadda Ya Want to Break Your Back for the Boss 

For 18 

What We Want 13 

When You Wear Thit Button 37 

Where the River Fraser Flows 56 

White Slave. The 31 

Workers Memorial Song . 61 

Workers of the World, Awaken! 6 

Workers of the World, Unite! 49 

Workingmen, Unite! 14 

Workers of the World are Now Awaking 50 

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M R EM E "M BE R' 

(Tune: "Hold the Fort") 

We speak to you from jail today 

Two hundred union men, 
We ? re here because the bosses' laws 

Bring slavery again. 


In Chicago's darkened dungeons 

For the 0. B. U. 
Remember you're outside for us 

While we're in here for you. 

We're here from mine and mill and rail 

We're here from off the sea, 
From coast to coast we make the btfast 

Of Solidarity. 

We laugh and sing, we have no fear 

Our hearts are always light, 
We know that every Wobblie true 

Will carry on the fight. 

We make a pledge — no tyrant might 

Can make us bend a knee, 
Come on you worker, organize 
And fight for Liberty. 

Cook County Jail, Oct. 18, 1917. 


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By Joe Hill 

Workers of the world, awaken ! 

Break your chains, demand your rights. 
All the wealth you make is taken 

By exploiting parasites. 
Shall you kneel in deep submission 

From your cradles to your graves? 
Is the height of your ambition 

To be good and -willing slaves? 

Arise, ye prisoners of starvation! 
Fight for your own emancipation; 
Arise, ye slaves of every nation. 

In One Union grand. 
Our little ones for bread are crying, 
And millions are from hunger dying; 
The end the means is justifying, 

Tis the final stand. 

If the workers take a notion, 

They can stop all speeding trains; 
Every ship upon the ocean 

They can tie with mighty chains. 
Every wheel in the creation, 

Every mine and every mill, 
Fleets and armies of the nation, 

Will at their command stand still. 

Join the union, fellow workers, 
Men and women, side by side; 

We will crush the greedy shirkers 
Like a sweeping, surging tide; 


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For united we are standing, 

But divided we will fall; 
Let this be our understanding — 
"All for one and one for all." 
Workers of the world, awaken! 

Rise in all your splendid might; 
Take the wealth that you are making, 
It belongs to you by right. 
No one will for bread be crying, 

Well have f reedom,. love and health. 
When the grand red flag is flying 
In the Worker's Commonwealth. 


By James Connell 

The worker's flag is deepest red, 
It shrouded oft our martyred dead; 
And ere their limbs grew stiff and cold 
Their life-blood dyed its every fold. 

Then raise the scarlet standard high; 
Beneath its folds well live and die, 
Though cowards flinch and traitors sneer, 
Well keep the red flag flying here. 

Look 'round, the Frenchman loves its blaze 
The sturdy German chants its praise; 
In Moscow's vaults its hymns are sung, 
Chicago swells its surging song. 

It waved above our infant might 
When all ahead seemed dark as night; 
It witnessed many a deed and vow, 
We will not change its color now. 


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It suits today the meek and base, 
Whose minds are fixed on pelf and place; 
To cringe beneath the rich man's frown, 
And haul that sacred emblem down. 

With heads uncovered, swear we all, 
To bear it onward till we fall; 
Come dungeous dark, or gallows grim, 
This song shall be our parting hymn 


By Eugene Pottier 
(Translated by Charles H. Kerr.) 
Arise, ye prisoners of starvation! 

Arise, ye wretched of the earth, 
For justice thunders condemnation, 

A better world's in birth. 
No more tradition's chains shall bind us, 

Arise, ye slaves r no more in thrall! 
The earth shall rise on new foundations, 

We have been naught, we shall be all. 


'Tis the final conflict, 

Let each stand in his place, 

The Industrial Union 
Shall be the human race. 

We want no condescending saviors. 

To rule us from a judgment hall; 
We workers ask not for their favors ; 

Let us consult^for all. 
To make the thief disgorge his booty 

To free the spirit from its cell, 


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We must ourselves decide our duty, • - 
We must decide and do it well, , , v ; 

The law oppresses us and tricks us, 

Wage systems drain our blood; 
The rich are free from obligations, 

The . laws the poor delude. 
Too long we've languished in subjection, 

Equality has other laws; 
"No rights" says she, "without their duties, 

No claims on equal without cause." 

Behold them seated in their glory, 

The kings of mine and rail and soil! 
What have you read in all their story, 

But how they plundered toil? 
Fruits of the workers' toil are buried 

In the strong coffers of a few; 
In working for their restitution- 

The men will only ask their due. 

Toilers from shops and fields united, 

The union we of all who work; 
The earth belongs to us, the workers, 

No room here for the shirk. 

How many on our flesh have fattened ! 

But if the noisesome birds of prey 
Shall vanish from the sky some morning, 

The blessed sunlight will stay. 

A shorter work day for all employed workers would 
put thousands of unemployed to work. If everybody 
worked there would be no poverty. 

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Ye sons of toil, awake to glory! 

Hark, hark, what myriads bid you rise; 
Your children, wives and grandsires hoary— 

Behold their tears and hear their cries! 

Behold their tears and hear their cries! 
Shall hateful tyrants mischief breeding, 

With hireling hosts, a ruffian band — 

Affright and desolate the land, 
While peace and liberty lie bleeding? 

To arms! to arms! ye brave! 

Th' avenging sword unsheathe! 
March on, march on, all hearts resolved 

On Victory or Death. 
With luxury and pride surrounded, 

The vile, insatiate despots dare, 
Their thirst for gold and power unbounded 

To mete and vend the light and air, 

To mete and vend the light and air, 
Like beasts of burden, would they load us, 

Like gods would bid their slaves adore, 

But Man is Man, and who is more? 
Then shall they longer lash and goad us? 
O, Liberty! can man resign thee? 

Once having felt thy generous flame, 
Can dungeon's bolts and bars confine thee? 

Our whips, thy noble spirit tame? 

Our whips, thy noble spirit tame? 
Too long the world has wept bewailing, 

That Falsehood's dagger tyrants wield; 

But Freedom is our sword and shield; 
And all their arts are unavailing! 

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(Tune: "The Red Flag") 
By Ralph Chaplin 

The pale and dismal daylight falls 
Through iron bars on prison walls. 
In chains we came from far and near, 
And in dark cells they hold us here. 

Defiant. 'neath the Iron Heel; 
Their walls of stone and bars of steel! 
For though all hell at us is hurled, 
We and our kind shall rule the world! 

At us the blood-hounds are let loose, 
The lynch-mobs with the knotted noose; 
In legal sanctioned mask and gown 
The new Black Hundreds hut us down. 

To all brave comrades o'er the sea, 
In chains for human liberty, 
And all jailed rebels everywhere 
We say: be bold to do and dare! 

By all the graves of Labor's dead, 
By Labor's deathless flag of red, 
We make a solemn vow to you, — 
Well keep the faith; we will be true. 

For Freedom laughs at prison bars 
Her voice re-echoes from the stars; 
Proclaiming with the tempest's breath 
A Cause beyond the reach of death! 

Cell 28, 

Cook County Jail, 
March 5, 1918. 


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By Pat Brennan 
(Tune: "Tipperary") 
We are coming home, John Farmer; we are coming back 
to stay. 

For nigh on fifty years or more, we've gathered up your 

We have slept out in wour hayfields, we have heard your 

morning shout; 
We've heard you wondering where in hell's them pesky 
; go-abouts? 


It's a long way, now understand me; it's a long way to 

It's a long way across the prairie, and to hell with 
Farmer John. 

Here goes for better wages, and the hours must come 

For we're out for a winter's stake this summer, and we 

want no scabs around. 
You've paid the going wages, that's what kept its on the 


You say you've done your duty, you chin-whiskered son 
of a gun. 

We have sent your kids to college, but still you want rave 
and shout. 

And call us tramps and hoboes, and pesky go-abouts. 
But now the wintry breezes are a-shaking our poor 

And the long drawn days of hunger try to drive us boes 

It is driving us to action — we are organized today; 
Us pesky tramps and hoboes are coming back to stay. 


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By Joe Hill 
(Tune: "Rainbow") 

We want all the workers in the world to organize 

Into a great big union grand y 

And when we all united stand 

The world for workers we'll demand 

If the working class could only see and realize 

What mighty power ^abor has 

Then the exploiting master class 

It would soon fade away. 


Come all ye toilers that work for wages, 

Come from every land, 

Join the fighting band, 

In one union grand, 
Then for the workers well make upon this earth a para- 

When the slaves get wise and organize. 

We want the sailor and the tailor and the lumberjacks, 

And all the cooks and Laundry girls, 

We want the guy that dives for pearls, 

The pretty maid that's making curls, 

And the baker and staker tnd the chimneysweep 

We want the man that's slinging hash, 

The child that works for little cash 

In one union grand. 

We want the tinner and the skinner and the chambermaid, 
We want the man with spikes on soles, 
We want the man that's digging holes, 
We want the man that's climbing poles, 


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And the tracker and the mucker and the hired man 
And all the factory girls and clerks, 
Yes, we want every one that works, 
In one union grand. 


By E. S. Nelson 
(Tune: "Red Wing/') 
Conditions they are bad,* 
And some of you are sad; 
You cannot see your enemy, 
The class that lives in luxury, — 
You workingmen are poor, — 
Will be forevermore, — 
As long as you permit the few 
To guide your destiny. 


Shall we still be slaves and work for wages? 

It is outrageous — has been for ages; 

This earth by right belongs to toilers, 

And not to spoilers of liberty. 

The master class is small, 
But they have lots of "gall." 
When we unite to gain our right, 
It they resist well use our might; 
There is no middle ground 
This fight must be one round 
To victory, for liberty, 
Our class is marching on! 
Workingmen, unite! 
We must put up a fight, 
To make us free from slavery 
And capitalistic tyranny; 


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This fight is not in vain, 
We've got a world to gain. 
Will you be a fool, a capitalist tool, 
And serve your enemy? 

By Joe Hill 
(Tune: "Steamboat Bill" 
You may ramble 'round the country anywhere you will, 
Youll always run across the same old Scissor Bill. 
He's found upon the desert, he is on the hill, 
He's found in every mining camp and lumber mill. 
He looks just like a human, he can eat and walk, 
But you will find he isn't, when he starts to walk. 
Hell say, "This is my country," with an honest face, 
While all the cops they^ chase him out of every place. 

Scissor Bill, he is a little dippy, 
Scissor Bill, he has a funny face. 
Scissor Bill should drown in Mississippi, 
He is the missing link that Darwin tried 'to trace. 
And Scissor Bill, he couldn't live without the booze, 
He sits around all day and spits tobacco juice. 
He takes a deck of cards and tries to beat the Chink! 
Yes, Bill would be a smart guy if he only could think. 
And Scissor Bill, he says: "This country must be freed 
From Niggers, Japs and Dutchmen and the gol dura 

He says that evedy cop would be a native son 
If it wasn't for the Irishman, the sonna fur gun. 
Scissor Bill, the "foreigners" is cussin; 
Scissor Bill, he says: "I hate a Coon"; 


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Scissor Bill is down on everybody 

The Hottentots, the bushmen and the man in the moon. 

Don't try to talk your union dope to Scissor Bill, 

He says he never organized and never will. 

He always will be satisfied until he's dead, 

With coffee and doughnut and a lousy old bed. 

And Bill, he says he gets rewarded thousand fold, 

When he gets up to Heaven on the streets of gold. 

But I don't care who knows it, and right here 111 tell, 

If Scissor Bill is goin' to Heaven, IH go to Hell. 

Scissor Bill, he wouldn't join the union, 

Scissor Bill, he says, "Not me, by Heck!" 

Scissor Bill gets his reward in Heaven, 

Oh ! sure. He'll get it, but hell get it in the neck. 


(Tune: "Hold the Fort") 

(Written by Ralph H. Chaplin, in Leavenworth Penit.") 
Now the final battle rages; 

Tyrants quake with fear. 
Rulers of the New Dark Ages 

Know THEIR end is near. 


Scorn to take the crumbs they drop us; 

All is ours by right! 
Onward, men! All Hell can't stop us! 

Crush the Parasite! 

With a world — wide revolution 

Bring them to your feet! 
They of crime and persecution — 

They must work to eat! 


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Tear the mask of lies asunder; 

Let the truth be known; j 
With a voice like angry thunder; 

Rise and claim your own! 

Down with Greed and Exploitation; 
Tyranny must fall! 
Hail to Toils' Emancipation; t 
Labor shall be all. 


By Joe Hill 

Tune: "Tramp, Tramp, Tramp, the Boys Are Marching 99 
If you all will shut your trap, 
I will tell you T)out a chap, 
That was broke and up against it, too, for fair; 
He was not the kind to shirk, 
He was looking hard for work, 
But he heard the same old story everywhere. 


Tramp, tramp, tramp, keep on a-tramping, 

Nothing doing here for you; 

If I catch you 'round again, 

You will wear the ball and chain, 

Keep on tramping, that's the best thing you can do. 

He walked up and down the street, 

'Till the shoes fell off his feet. 

In a house he spied a lady cooking stew, 

And he said, "How do you do, 

May I chop some wood for you?" 

What the lady told him made him feel so blue. 


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'Cross the street a sign he read, 

"Work for Jesus" so it said, 

And he said, /'Here is my chance, 111 surely try," 

And he kneeled upon the floor, 

Till his knees got rather sore, 

But at eating-time he heard the preacher cry — 

Down the street he met a cop, 

And the copper made him stop, 

And he asked him, "When did you blow into town? 

Come with me up to the judge," 

But the judge he said, "Oh fudge, 

Bums that have no money needn't come around." 

Finally came that happy day 

When his life did pass away, 

He was sure he'd go to heaven when he died, 

When he reached th« pearly gate, 

Santa Peter, mean old skate, 

Slammed the gate right in his face and loudly cried: 


(Tune: "What Do You Want to Make Those Eyes 
at Me For?") 

Toiling along in light from morn 'til night, 
Wearin' away your all for the Parasite; 
Working* like a mule with a number two, 
Puffin' like a bellows when the day is through; 
Steering a load of gravel through the muck and slop 


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Packing a hod of mustard 'til you damn near flop; 
Trying to bust a gut for two twenty-five, 
Pluggin' like a sucker 'til five. 


So whadda ya want to break your back for the boss for, 

When it don't mean life to you? 

Do you think it right to struggle day and night, 

And plow like Hell for the Parasite? 

So whadda ya want to break your back for the boss for, 

When the: e s more in life for you? 

Slow up Bill! that's the way to beat the System; 

Join the Wobbly Gang, they've got the bosses guessing 

So whadda ya want to break your back for the boss for, 

When it don't mean life to you? 

Do it all today and you'll soon find out, 
Tomorrow there'll be nothing but to hang about, 
Looking at the "job sign," wondering why you rave, 
With a wrinkle on your belly like an ocean wave; 
Doughnuts then begin to hang a little high, 
You're pinched by the Bull for a "German spy;" 
You're nothing but a bum, says the Judge with a smile, 
Thirty days on the Rock pile. 

"Yaas," said the farmer reflectively "All the I. W. W. 
fellers I've met seem to be pretty decent lads, but them 
"alleged I. W. W's. must be holy frights." 


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By Joe Hill 
(Tune: "Sweet Bye and Bye") 
Long-haired preachers come out every night, 
Try to tell you what's wrong and what's right; 
But when asked how Tbout something to eat 
They will answer with voices so sweet: 

You will eat, bye and bye, 
In that glorious land above the sky; 
Work and pray, live on hay, 
You'll get pie in the sky when you die. 
And the starvation army they play, 
And they sing and they clap and they pray. 
Till they get all your coin on the drum, 
Then they'll tell you when you're on the bum: 
Holy Rollers and jumpers come out, 
And they holler, they jump and they shout. 
"Give your money to Jesus," they say, 
"He will cure all diseases today." 
If you fight hard for children and wife — 
Try to get something good in this life — 
You're a sinner and bad man, they tell, 
When you die you will sure go to hell. 
Workingmen of all countries, unite, 
Side by side we for freedom will fight: 
When the world and its wealth we have gained 
To the grafters well sing this refrain: 
You will eat, bye and bye, 
When you've learned how to cook and to fry 
Chop some wood, 'twill do you good, 
And youll eat in the sweet bye and bye, 


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(Air: "The Memory of the Dead") 
By James J. Ferriter 

The long, long wished for hour has come 
But come, I hope, not in vain, 

When workingmen in One Union Grand 
Will Liberty proclaim. 
We've fought on many a battle field 

Our Cause to maintain, 
And here today we stand as one — 

True Wobblies once again. 

It was in the year of seventeen, 
On August the first day, 
The tyrant dogs of the master class 
Our hero bold did slay; 
We do not fear their lynching threats, 
Their gunmen nor their jails, 
And here today we stand as one — 
Our Union never fails. 

Oh, cruel was this martyrdom 

Suffered by our patriot bold, 

When dragged upon the rough paved streets, 

All for the greed of gold; 

Sure, Christ himself, when on this earth 

Suffered on the Cross of Calvary 

His life for freedom gave. 

Here's to your Memory Frank Little, 
Though dead and in your grave; 
For the worker's Cause you fought so hard 
And your precious life you gave. 

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But though you've gone your're not forgot — 
Your work lives just the sjome, 
For since you left we've organized 
In honor of your name! 


By Joe Hill 

(Tune: "There Is Power in the Blood") 
Would you have freedom from wage slavery, 

Then join in the grand Industrial band; 
Would you from mis'ry and hunger be free, 

Then come! Do your share, like a man. 


There is pow'r, there is pow'r 
In a band of workingmen, 
When they stand hand in hand, 
That's a pow'r, that's a pow'r 
That must rule in every land — 
One Industrial Union Grand. 

Would you have mansions of gold in the sky, 
And live in a shack, way in the back? 

Would you have wings up in heaven to fly, 
And starve here with rags on your back? 

If you've had "nuff " of "the blood of the lamb" 
Then join in the grand Industrial band; 

If, for a change, you would have eggs and ham, 
Then come, do your share, like a man. 

If you like sluggers to beat off you head, 
Then don't organize, all unions despise, 


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If you want nothing before you are dead, 

Shake hands with your boss and look wise. 
Gome, all ye workers, from every land, 

Come, join in the grand Industrial band, 
Then we our share of this earth shall demand. 
Come on! Do your share, like a man. 


(Air: "Old oaken Bucket") 
By John Healy 

How dear to my heart are those chimes in the morning, 

That yank me from bed with melodious thrill; 

How sweet is the sound of the regular warning 

That yells that it's time that I hike to the mill. 

Without it I'd sleep till the sun had arisen 

Be late to the job that my boss lets me use; 

Get canned, perhaps steal, Maybe land in a prison 

If the chimes didn't hustle me out of my snooze. 


The faithful alarm clock 
The rattling alarm clock; 
The dollar alarm clock 
That rests on my shelf. 

What a blessing it was when the thing was invented 

It beats the slave-driver who came with his stick; 

It rests on the shelf in the shack that I rented 

It never gets hungry; it never gets sick. 

If overly weary I take a tin bucket 

And place the alarm clock down into the thing, 

When it chimes in the morning it doubles the racket; 

It would wake up the dead when the two of them ring. 


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Sometimes the good woman Jets worn and weary 

I tell her the journtey would look still more dreary 
If the dollar alarm clock should fail to explode. 
Then here's to my booster that only needs winding, 
And here's to the victim that just keeps alive. 
The boss gets the money and I do the grinding; 
The clock starts the circus at quarter past five. 


(English Transport Worker's Strike Song) 
We meet today in Freedom's cause , 

And raise our voices high; 
Well join our hands in union strong, 

To battle or to die. 

Hold the fort for we are coming — 

Union men, be strong. 
Side by side we battle onward, 

Victory will come. 
Look, my Comrades, see the union 

Banners waving high. 
Reinforcements now appearing, 

Victory is nigh. 
See our numbers still increasing; 

Hear the bugle blow. 
By our union we shall thriumph 

Over every foe. 
Fierce and long the battle rages, 

But we will not fear. 
Help will come whene'er it's needed, 

Cheer, my Comrades, cheer. 

And says we are 

tuch of a load, 



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By Joe Hill 

(Air: "It Looks To Me Like a Big Time Tonight") 

Please give me your attention, 111 introduce to you 
A man that is a credit to "Our Red, White and Blue"; 
His head is made of lumber, and solid as a rock; 
He is a common worker and his name is Mr. Block. 
And Block he thinks he may 
Be President some day. 


Oh, Mr. Block, you were born by mistake, 

You take the cake, 

You make me ache. 
Tie on a rock to your block and then jump in the lake, 
Kindly do that for Liberty's sake. 

Yes, Mr. Block is lucky; he found a job, by gee! 
The sharks got seven dollars, for job and fare and fee. 
They shipped him to a desert and dumped him with his 

But when he tried to find his job, he sure was out of luck. 
He shouted, "That's too raw, 
111 fix them with the law." 

Block hiked back to the city, but wasn't doing well. 
He said, "111 join the union — the great A. F. of L." 
He got a job next morning, got fired in the night, 
He said, "111 see Sam Gompers and hell fix that foreman 

Sam Gompers said, "You see, 
You've got our sympathy." 

Election day he shouted, "A Socialist for Mayor 1" 
The "comrade" got elected, he happy was for fair, 


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But after the election he got in awful shock. 

A great big socialistic Bull did rap him on the block. 

And Comrade Block did sob, 

"I helped him to his job. 1 * 

Poor Block, he died one evening, I'm very glad to state; 

He climbed the golden ladder up to the pearly gate. 

He said, "Oh, Mr. Peter, one word 111 like to tell, 

I'd like to meet the Astorbilts and John D. RockefdL" 

Old Pete said, "Is that so? 

You 11 meet them down below." 


(Tune: "Farewell To Thee") 
By Richard Brazier 
Proudly went out Joe unto his death 
With smiling lips and fearless eyes 
This message gave with his last breath 
"Don't mourn for me, but ORGANIZE." 

Farewell to you, thou rebel true 
Whose singing heart has charmed our weary hours 
Those last brave words, before you did depart 
Shall live forever in our hearts. 
Though they stilled your rebel heart with lead 
And sealed with death your lips, our Joe, 
Those words, the last you ever said 
Will bring to the masters ruin and woe. 
We have shed no bitter tears for thee 
Nor have we sighed the mournful sigh. 
We have fought the fight to make men free 
In the cause for which you had to die. 
The wind sighs gladly o'er your grave 
A requiem joyfully for thee. 


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'It seems to sing, the life you gave 
Will hasten that day of liberty. 

Farewell, Joe, you had to go. 

The masters had declared that you should die, Joe, 
But although you're gone into that great unknown 
Your memory long with us, shall live. 


Poem — by an Unknown Proletarian. 
Music — by Rudolf von Liebich, of the General Re- 
cruiting Union, Chicago, and Composer of Music for the 
Working Cla>s. 

We have fed yon all, for a thousand years 
And you hail us still unfed, 

Though there's never a do'Mar of all your wealth 

But mark 1 ; the worker's dead. 

We have Ridded our be^c to give you rest 

And you lie on crimson wool. 

Then if blood be the price of all your wealth, 

Good God! We have paid it in lull. 

There is never a mine blown skyward now 

But we're buried alive for you. 

There's never a wreck drifts shoreward now 

But we are its ghastly crew. 

Go reckon our dead by the forges red 

And the factories where we spin. 

If blood be the price of your cursed wealth 

Good God! we have paid it in. 

We have fed you all for a thousand years — 

For that was our doom you know, 

From the days when you chained us in your fields 


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To the strike of a week ago 

You have taken our lives, and our babies and wives 
And we're told it's your legal share; 
But if blood be the price of your lawful wealth 
Good God! we have bought it fair. 


By John E. Nordquist. 
(Tune: "The Dream of a Soldier Boy") 
In every jail on "democracy's" trail, 
The wobblies were doing their bit; 
A parasite lay dreaming 

Who said their doom was fit. 
When the darkness had taken to flight, 
Then he told of his dream in the night; 


"We have crushed the Industrial Union, 

^We have killed all their active men; 
We have smeared them with tar and we've beat them 
with clubs, 

And scared away the working dubs. 
There's no chance for their organization — 

ONE BIG UNION has turned to air, 
And back are the toilers to slav'ry again:' 1 

Twas the dream of a millionaire. 
From every cell does the grand message swell; 

"The toilers must organize! 
Put down your tyrant masters, 

Accept no compromise, 
And the dream of your slavery's night 

Shall come true in the real freedom's light: 
Second CHORUS 
When the Industrial Workers shall thriumph, 

2 8 

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All the masters must go to work; 
And our mothers and babes shall have homes that day, 

And work-worn children then shall play. 
Every mortal shall live by his labor 

And the old folks shall have good care; 
The earth to a paradise will be transformed — 

But a dream is the millionaire. 


By Ralph H. Chaplin 
(Tune: "John Brown's Body") 
When the Union's insipration through the worker's blood 
shall run, 

There can be no power greater anywhere beneath the suv 
Yet what force on earth is weaker than the feeble 
strength of one? 

But the Union makes us strong. 

Solidarity forever! 
Solidarity forever! 
Solidarity forever! 
But the Union makes us strong. 
Is there aught we hold in common with the greedy para- 

Who would lash us into serfdom and would crush us with 
his might 

Is there anything left for us but to organize and fight? 

For the Union makes us strong. 
It is we who plowed the prairies; built the cities where 
they trade. 

Dug the mines and built the workshops; endless miles of 
railroad laid. 


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Now we stand, outcast and starving, 'mid the wonders we 
have made; 

For the Union makes us strong. 

All the world that's owned by idle drones, is ours and ours 


We have laid the wide foundations; built it skywards, 

stontr by stone. 

It is oo dnd not slave in, but to master and to own, 
While the Union makes us strong. 

They have taken untold millions that they never toiled to 


But without our brain and muscle not a single wheel can 

We can break their haughty power; gain our freedom, 
when we learn 

That the Union makes us strong. 

In our hands is placed a power greater than their hoarded 

gold ; 

Greater than the might of armies, magnified a thousand 

We can bring to birth the new world from the ashes of 
the old, 

For the Union makes us strong. 

The present is distinctively an industrial epoch in world 
history. There can be no democracy in a world ruled by 
industrial despots. The I. W. W. stands for the only 
REAL democracy — Industrial Democracy. 

One worker on the job is worth a dozen in the jungles. 

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By Joe Hill 
(Air: "Meet Me Tonight in Dreamland") 
One little girl, fair as a pearl. 
Worked every day in a laundry; 
All that she made for food she paid, 
So she slept on a park bench so soundly ; 
And old procuress spied here there, 
She came and whispered in her ear: 

Come with me now, my girly, 
Don't sleep out in the cold; 
Your face and tresses curly 
Will bring you fame and gold, 
Automobiles to ride in, diamonds and silk to wear, 
You'll be a star bright, down in the red light, 
You'll make your fortune there. 

Same little girl, no more a pearl, 
Walks all alone long the river, 
Five years have flown, her health is gone, 
She would look at the water and shiver, 
Whene'er she'd stop to rest and sleep, 
She'd hear a voice call from the deep: 
Girls in this way, fall every day, 
And have been falling for ages, 
Who is to blame? You know his name, 
It's the boss that pays starvation wages. 
A homeless girl can always hear 
Temptations calling everywhere. 

The workers can never be free until they blow the 
whistle for the parasites to go to work. 


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(Tune: "Wearing of the Green") 

One da; as I was walking along the railroad track, 
I met a man in Wheatland with his blankets on his back, 
He was an old-time hop picker, I'd seen his face before, 
I knew he was a wobbly, by the button that he wore. 
I knew he was a wobbly, by the button that he wore. 

He took his blankets off his back and sat down on the rail 
And told us some sad stories *bout the workers down in 

He said the way they treat them there, he never saw the 

For they're putting men in prison just for going out on 

Just for going out on strike, just for going out on strike, 
They're putting men in prison, just for going out on 

They have sentenced Ford and Suhr, and they've got them 
in the pen. 

If they catch a wobbly in their burg, they vag him there 
and then. 

There is one thing I can tell you, and it makes the bosses 

As fast as they can pinch us, we can always get some 

We can always get some more, we can always get some 

As fast as they can pinch us, we can always get some 

Oh, Hurst and Durst are mad as hell, they don't know 
what to do. 


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And the rest of those hop barons are all feeling mighty 

Oh, we've tied up all their hop fields, and the scabs refuse 
to come, 

And we're going to keep on striking till we put them on 
the bum. 

Till we put them on the bum, till we put them on the bum, 
'We're going to keep on striking till we put tfcem on the 

Now, we've got to stick together, boys, and strive with all 
our might, 

We must free Ford and Suhr, boys, we've got to win this 

From these scissor bill hop barons we are taking no more 

We'll pick no more damned hops for them, for overalls 
and snuff, 

For our overalls and snuff, for our overalls and snuff, 
We'll pick no more damned hops for them, for overalls 
and snuff. 



Words and Music by Joe Hill 
(Written just before his execution) 

A little girl with her father stayed, in a cabin across the 

Her mother dear in the cold grave lay; with her father 

she'd always be — 
But then one day the great war broke out and the father 

was told to go; 
The little girl pleaded — her father she needed. 

She begged, cried and pleaded so: 


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Don't take my papa away from me, don't leave me there 
all alone. 

He has cared for me so tenderly, ever since mother was 

Nobody ever like him can be, no one can so with me play. 
Don't take my papa away from me; please don't take t 
papa away. 

Her tender pleadings were all in vain, and her father 

went to the war. 
He'll never kiss her good night again, for he fell 'mid ttye 

cannon's roar. 

Greater a soldier was never born, but his brave heart was 

pierced one day; 
And as he was dying, he heard some one crying, 

A girl's voice far away: 


(Tune: "They Made It Twice As Nice As Paradise And 
Called It Dixie Land") 
By Raymond Corder 

Oh the master class and the scissor-bill 

They rave of Dixieland 

But still it's hell for darkies there 

And the migratory working man 

The plutes say Angels built Dixie 

But I think they told a fib 

If the Angels did build Dixie land 

Then 111 tell you what the Angels did. 


They built some built some big stockades, 
And they called it Dixie land 


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Where justice is God only knows 

Far away in Dixie land 

They built the vilest place I've known 

To keep the slaves from doing harm 

Nothing was forgotten 

Where every thing is rotten 

When they built the county farm. 

And then they took a devil from the pit 

And they gave him a thirty-eight 

They tought him to be a convict quard 

And all workingmen to hate 

It's a crime to organize down there 

But we'll show them as we've shown the Master 

Class alsewhere 
We'll make it twice as nice as paradise 
When we conquer Dixie land. 

Oh the workers slave in this land so bright 

Where flowers ever bloom 

And democrats use laws and might 

To turn the light to gloom 

Oh working class of Dixie, 

Wake up and take your due 

Then the flowers will bloom for us again 

When finally we are through. 

(Houston, Tex.) 
(January, 1917.) 

An ounce of ORGANIZATION is worth a ton of talk; 
join the One Big Union and help to free yourself and 
your class from wage slavery. 


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(Tunc: "Don't Bite the Hand That's Feeding You") 

One day as I sat pining 
A message of cheer came to me, 
A light of revolt was shining 
On a country far over the sea, 
The forces of rules to sever 
And the flag of the earth to unfold 
To secure our freedom forever 
And a world of beauty untold. 


All hail to the Bolsheviki! 

We will fight for our Class and be free, 

A Kaiser, King or Czar, no matter which you are 

You're nothing of interest to me; 

If you don't like the red flag of Russia, 

If you don't like the spirit so true, 

Then just be like the cur in the story 

And lick the hand that's robbing you. 

We have lived in meek submission 
Thru ages of toil and despair, 
To comply with the plutes' ambition 
With never a thought nor a care. 
An echo from Russia is sounding 
'Tis the chimes of a True Liberty, 
Its a message for millions resounding 
To throw off your chains and be free. 

YOU cannot be free while your CLASS is enslaved. 
Join the I. W. W. and find YOUR place in the final battle 
for the emancipation of the world's workers. 

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(Tune: "When You Wore a Tulip") 
By Richard Brazier 

I met him in Dakota when the harvesting was o'er 
A "Wob" he was, I saw by the button that he wore. 
He was talking to a bunch of slaves in the jungles near 
the tracks; 

He said "You guys whose homes are on your backs; 
Why don't you stick together with the "Wobblies" in one 

And fight to change conditions for the workers in this 


When you wear that button, the "Wobblies" red button 

And carry their red, red card, 

No need to hike, boys, along these old pikes, boys 

Every "Wobbly" will be your pard. 

The boss will be leery, the "stiffs" will be cheery 

When we hit John Farmer hard 

They'll all be affrighted, when we stand united 

And carry that Red, Red Card. 

The "stiffs" all seemed delighted, when they heard him 
talk that way. 

They said, "We need more pay, and a shorter working 

The "Wobbly" said "You'll get these things without the 

slightest doubt 
If youll organize to knock the bosses out. 
If youll join the One Big Union, and wear their badge of 


Youll strike that blow all slaves must strike if they would 
be free. 


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By Joe Hill 

The Workers on the S. P. line to strike sent out a call; 
But Casey Jones, the engineer, he wouldn't strike at\all; 

His boiler ii was leaking, and its drivers on the bum, 
And his engine and its bearings, they were all out of 


Casey Jones kept his junk pile running; 
Casey Jones was working double time: 
Casey Jones got a wooden medal, 
For being good and faithful on the S. P. line. 
The Workers said to Casey: "Won't you help us win this 

But Casey said : "Let me alone, you'd better take a hike." 
Then some one put a bunch of railroad ties across the 

And Casey hit the river with an awful crack. 

Casey Jones hit the river bottom; 

Casey Jones broke his blooming spine, 

Casey Jones was an Angeleno, 

He took a trip to heaven on the S. P. Line. 
When Casey Jones got up to heaven to the Pearly Gate 
He said: "I'm Casey Jones, the guy that pulled the S. P. 


You're just the man." said Peter; "our musicians went 
on strike; 

You can yet a job a-scabbing any time you like." 
Casey Jones got a job in heaven; 
Casey Jones was doing mighty fine; 
Casey Jones went scabbing on the angels, 
Just like he did to workers on the S. P. line. 

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The angels got together, and they said it wasn't fair, 
For Casey Jones to go around a-scabbing everywhere. 
The Angel's Union No. 23, they sure were there, 
And they promptly fired Casey down the Golden Stair. 

Casey Jones went to Hell a-flying. 

"Casey Jones,'* the Devil said, "Oh fine; 

Casey Jones, get busy shoveling sulphur; 

That's what you get for scabbing on the S. P. line." 


(Tune: "Tramp, nump, Tramp, the Boys are Marching") 
By Wm. Whalen 

In the prison cell we sit 

Are we broken hearted — nit 

We're as happy and as cheerful as can be, 

For we know that every wob 

Will be busy on the job, 

Till they swing the prison doors and set us free. 

Are you busy Fellow Workers 

Are your shoulders to the wheel? 

Get together for the cause 

And some day you 11 make the laws. 

It's the only way to make the masters squeal. 

Though the living is not grand, 
Mostly mush and coffee and, 
It's as good as we excepted when we came. 
It's the way they treat the slave 
In this free land of the brave 
^here is no one but the working class to blame 

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When McRea, and Veitch, and Black 

To the Lumberyards! go back 

May they travel empty handed as they came. 

May they turn in their report 

That the wobs still hold the fort 

That a rebel is an awful thing to tame. 

When the 65 per cent • 

That they call the working gent 

Organizes in a Union of its class 

We will then get what we're worth 

That will be the blooming' earth. 

Organize and help to bring the thing to pass. 


By Joe Hill 
(Air: "My Old Kentucky Home") 

We will sing one song of the meek and humble slave, 

The horn-handed son of the toil, 
He's toiling hard from the cradle to the grave, 

But his master reaps the profits from his toil. 
Then well sing one song of the greedy master class, 

They're vagrants in broadcloth, indeed, 
They live by robbing the ever-toiling mass, 

Human blood they spill to satisfy their greed. 


Organize! Oh, toilers come organize your might; 

Then well sing one song of the worker's commonwealth. 

Full of beauty, full of love and health. 

We will sing one song of the politician sly, 

He's talking of changing the laws; 
Election day all the drinks and smokes hell buy, 


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While he's living from sweat of your brow. 
Then well sing one song of the girl below the line, 

She's scorned and despised everywhere. 
While in their mansions the "keepers" wine and dine 

From the profits that immoral traffic bear. 

We will sing one song of the preacher, fat and sleek, 

He tells you of homes in the sky. 
He says, "Be generous, be lowly, and be meek, 

If you don't youll sure get roasted when you die." 
Then well sing on esong of the poor and ragged tramp, 

He carries his home on his back; 
Too old to work, he's not wanted 'round the camp, 

So he wanders without aim along the track. 

We will sing one song of the children in the mills, 

They're taken from playgrounds and schools, • 
In tender years made to go the pace that kills, 

In the sweatshops, 'mong the looms and the spools. 
Then we'll sing one song of the One Big Union Grand, 

The hope of the toiler and slaved 
Its coming fast! it is sweeping sea and land, 

To the terror of the grafter and the knave. 


(Air: "Soldier's Song") 
Courage and honor to him who's jailed; 
Our hearts shall cheer him and cry "All Hail!" 
Our hands shall help to win the fight— 
We're ready to fight, we're ready to die 
For Liberty. 

Industrial Unionism is the royal road to Industrial 


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Words and Music by Joe Hill 
(Copyrighted, 1916) 

There are women of many descriptions 

In this queer world, as everyone knows, 
Some are living beautiful mansions, 

And are wearing the finest of clothers. 
There are blue blooded queens and princesses, 

Who have charms made of diamonds and pearl; 
But the only and thoroughbred lady 

Is the Rebel Girl. 


That's the Rebel Girl, that's the Rebel Girl! 
To the working class she's a precious pearl. 
She brings courage, pride and joy 
To the fighting Rebel Boy. 
. We've had girls before, but we need some more 
In the Industrial Workers of the World. 
For it's great fight for f reedof 
With a Rebel Girl. 

Yes, her hands may hardened from labor, 
And her dress may not be very fine; 

But a heart in her bosom is beating 
That is true to her class and her kind. 

And the grafters in terror are trembling 
: When her spite and defiance she'll hurl; 

For the only and throughbred lady \ 
Is the Rebel Girl. 

Words and Music of "The Rebel Girl" may be obtained 
in popular sheet form by applying to I. W. W. Publishing 
Bureau. Price, 25 cents. 


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(Tune: 'iJattle Hymn of the Republic") 

We have seen the reaper toiling in the heat of summer 

We have seen his children needy when the harvesting was 

We have seen a mighty army dyirijg, helpless, one by one, 

While iheir flag went marching on. 


Wa*re workers, come join the union! 
Wage workers, come join the union! 
W^ue workers, come join the union! 
Industrial Workers of the World. . 

O, the army of the wretched, how they swarm the city 
street — 

We have seen them in the midnight, where the Goths and 
Vandals meet; 

We have shuddered in the darkness at the noises of their 

But their cause went marching on. 

Our slaver's marts are empty, human flesh no more is 

Where the dealer's fatal hammer makes the clink of leap- 
ing gold, 

But the slavers of the present more relentless powers 

Though the world goes marching on 

But no longer shall the children bend above the whizzing 

We will free the weary women from their bondage onder 


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In the mines and in the forest worn and helpless man 
shall fell 

That his cause is marching on. 
Then lift your eyes, ye toilers, in the desert hot and dear, 
Catch the cool winds from the mountains. Hark! the 

river's voice is near; 
Soon well rest beside the fountain and the dreamland 
will be here 

As we go marching on. 


By John E. Nordquist 
(Tune: "Annie Laurie") 

Parasites in this fair country, live from honest labor's 

There are some who never labor, yet labor's product get; 
They never starve or freeze, nor face the wintry breeze; 

They are well fed, clothed and sheltered, 
And they do whate'er they please. 

These parasites are living, i nluxury and state; 
While millions starve and shiver, and moan their wretch 
ed fate; 

They know not why they die, nor do they ever try 

Their lot in life to better; 
They only mourn and sigh. 

These parasites would vanish and leave this grand old 

If the workers fought together, and the scarlet flag un- 

When in One Union grand, the working class shall stand, 

The parasites will vanish. 
And the workers rule the land. 


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By Ralph H. Chaplin 
(Air: "Song of a Thousand Years") 

Up from your knees, ye cringing serf men ! 

What have ye gained by whines and tears? 
Rise! they can never break, our spirits 

Though they should try a thousand years. 

A thousand years, then speed the victory! 

Nothing can stop us nor dismay. 
After the winter comes the springtime; 

After the darkness comes the day. 
Break ye your chains; strike off your fetters; 

Beat them to swords — the foe appears — 
Slaves of the world, arise and crush him; 

Crush him or serve a thousand years. 
Join in the fight — the Final Battle. 

Welcome the fray with ringing cheers. 
These are the times all freemen dreamed of — 

Fought to attain a thousand years. 
Be ye prepared; be not unworthy, — 

Greater the task when triumph nears. 
Master the earth, O Men of Labor, — 

Long have ye learned — a thousand years. 
Over the hills the sun is rising. 

Out of the gloom the light appears. 
See! at your feet the world is waiting, — 

Bought with your blood a thousand years. 


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(Tune: "Take It%to the Lord in Prayer") 
By John Brill 

Are you poor, forlorn and hungry? 

there lots of things you lack? 
Is >"in- life made up of misery? 

Then dump the bosses off your back. 
Are your clothes all patched and tattered? 

Ar e \ ou living in a shack? 
Wou'd yon have your troubles scattered? 

Then dump the bosses off your back. 

Are you almost split asunder? 

Lo;i< e<i like a long-eared jack? 
Boob- -why don't you buck like thunder? 

And dump the bosses off your back. 
All the agonies you suffer, 
You can end with one good whack — 
Stiffen up, you orn'ry duffer — 

And dump the bosses off your back. 

One Big Union tactics are simply the efficiency system 
applied to the class struggle. 


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By Joe Hill 
(Air: "Everybody's Doing It") 

Fellow workers,can't you hea*r, 
There is something in the air. 
Everywhere you walk, everybody talk 
'Bout the T. \\. W. 
They have uot a way to strike 
That the master doesn't like — 
Everybody stick, that's the only trick, 
All are joining it now. 


Everybody's joining it! Joining what? Joining It! 
Everybody's joining it! Joining what? Joining It! 
One Big Union: that's the worker's choice, 
One Bit? Union; <.iiai - the only noise, 
One Bi.M Unior ; shout with all your voice; 
Make a noise, uiake a noise, make a noise, boys, 
Everybody's joining it! Joining what? Joining It! 
Every boo v s joining it! Joining what? Joining It! 
Joining in thiv -nion grand, 
Boys anH ^irk in every land; 
All the workers hand in hand — 
Everybody s joining it now. 

Th' Boss is feeling mighty blue, 
He don't know just what to do. 
We have got his goat, got him by the throat, 
Soon he'll work or go starving, 
Join the I. W. W., 
Don't let bosses trouble you, 
Come and joi» with us— -everybody does — 
You've got nothing to lose. 


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Will the One Big Union grow? 

Mister Bonehead wants to know. 

Well! What do yon think, of that funny gink 

Asking such foolish questions? 

Will it grow? Look a here, 

Brand new unions everywhere, 

Better take a hunch, join the fighting bunch, 

Fight for Freedom and Bight. 

By Joe Hill 
(Tune: "A Little Talk With Jesus") 

In Lawrence, when the starving masses struck for more 
to eat 

And wooden-headed Wood he tried the strikers to defeat, 
To Sammy Gompers wrote and asked him what he 

And this is just the answer that the mailman brought: 

A little talk with Golden 
Makes it right, all right; 
Hell settle any strike, 
If there's coin in sight; 
Just take him up to dine 
And everything is fine — 
A little talk with Golden 
Makes it right, all right 

The preachers, cops and money-kings were working hand 
in hand, 

The boys in blue, with stars and stripes were sent by 
Uncle Sam; 

Still things were looking blue, 'cause every striker knew 


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That weaving cloth with bayonets is hard to do. 
John Golden had with Mr. Wood a private interview, 
He told him how to bust up the "I double double U." 
He came out in a while and wore the Golden smile. 
He said: "I've got all labor leaders skinned a mile." 
John Golden pulled a bogus strike with all his "pinks and 

He thought the rest would follow like a bunch of crazy 

But to his great surprise the "foreigners" were wise, 
In one big solid union they were organized* 


That's one time Golden did not 

Make it right, all right; 

In spite of all his schemes 

The strikers won the fight. 
When all the workers stand 
United hand irf hand, 
The world with all its wealth 
Will be at their command. 

By Walquist 
(Tune: "Love Me and the World is Mine") 
I wander up and down the street, 
Till I have blisters on my feet. 
My belly's empty, I've no bed, 
No place to rest my weary head. 
There's millions like me wandering, 
Who are deeply pondering, 
Oh, what must we do to live? 

Shall the workers face starvation, misery and privation, 
In a land so rich and fair 


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Unite, my Fellow Men, unite! 
Take back your freedom and your right 
You have nothing to lose now, 
Workers of the World, unite. 

Oh I workingmen, come organize, 

Oh! when, oh! when will you get wise? 

Are you still going to be a fool, 

And let the rich man o'er you rule? 

It is time that you were waking, 

See the dawn is breaking 

Come now, wake up from your dream. 

All this wealth belong to toilers, 

And not to the spoilers, 

Wage slaves throw your chains away. 


Unite, my Fellow, Men unite! 
And crush the greedy tyrant's might 
The earth belongs to Labor, 
Workers of the World, unite. 


By Richard Brazier 

(Tune: "The Shade of the Old Apple Tree") 
The Workers of the World are now awaking; 

The earth is shaking' with their mighty tread. 
The master class in great fear now are quaking, 

The sword of Damocles hangs o'er their head. 
The toilers in one union are uniting, 

To overthrow their cruel master's reign. 


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In one Union now they all are fighting, 
The product of their labor to retain. 

It's a union for true Liberty 
It's a union for you and for me; 
It's for girls and for boys. 
Who want freedom from wage slavery; 
And we march with a Red Flag ahead, 
'Cause the blood of all nations is red — 
Come and join in the fray, 
Come and join us today, 
We are fighting for Freedom and Bread. 

The master's class in fear have kept us shaking, 

For long in bondage they held us fast; 
But the fight the Industrial Workers are now making 

Will make our chains a relic of the past. 
Industrial unionism now is calling, 

The toilers of the world they hear its cry; 
In line with the Industrial Workers they are falling, 

By their principles to stand or fall and die. 


By Ralph. H. Chaplin 
(Tune: "Marching Through Georgia") 

Come with us, you workingmen, and join the rebel band; 
Come, you discontented ones, and give a helping hand, 
We march against the parasite to drive him from the land. 


Hurrah! hurrah! we're going to paint 'er red! 
Hurrah! hurrah! the way is clear ahead — 


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We're gaining shop democracy and liberty and bread 

In factory and field and mine we gather in our might, 
We're on the job and know the way to win the hardest 

For the beacon that shall guide us out of darkness into 


Come on, you fellows, get in line; well fill the boss with 

Red's the color of our flag, it's stained with blood and 
tears — 

We'll flout it in his ugly mug and ring our loudest cheers 

"Slaves" they call us "working plugs," inferior by birth, 
But when we hit their pocketbooks we'll spoil their smiles 
or mirth — 

We'll stop their dirty dividends and drive them from the 


We hate their rotten system more than any mortals do, 
Our aim is not to patch it up, but built it all anew, 
And what we'll have for government, when finally we're 


Full size red felt pennants with large I.W.W. label and 
the wording, One Big Union. With the design and word- 
ing in three colors this makes an attractive appearance 
for demonstrations, and for decorating halls, etc Price 
25 cents each, postpaid. 

5 2 

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By Richard Brazier 
(Tune: "Old Black Joe") 
Gone are the days, when the master class could say, 
"We'll work you long hours for little pay; 
Well work you all day and half the night as well." 
But I hear the workers' voices saying, "You will, like 


For we're going, to take an eight hour day. 
We surely will surprise the Boss some first of May. 
Now, workmen, it's up to you to say 
If you want a general eight hour day. 
As soon as you are ready, we are with you heart and 

All you have to do is to join our Union grand. 
Now, workingmen, we are working far too long; 
That's why we've got this vast unemployed throng. 
Give every worker a chance to work each day; 
Let's all join together and to the Boss all say, 

The I. W. W.; "Most Hated and Most Loved." 
"For my part, I sympathize with them. While they are 
threatened and imprisoned I am manacled. If they are 
denied a living wage, I, too, am defrauded. While they 
are industrial slaves I cannot be free. My hunger is not 
^satisfied while they are hindered and neglected. When 
they are flung out on a desert, under a scorching sun, I 
too, burn, and my soul is athirst. When one of them is 
dragged from his bed and hung to a railroad trestle, a 
great horror of darkness falls upon my spirit, and from 
the depths of my heart I cry out against those who per- 
secute the weak and unfriended. — Helen KeUer. 


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(Tune: "Are You from Dixie?") 
By Joe Foley 
Hello, there, worker, how do you do? 
You're up against it; broke, hungry, too. 
Don't be surprised, you're recognized, 
I know a slave by the look in his eyes. 
You want what I want — well, that's liberty, 
Your frowning face seems to tell it to me. 
Where there's a will, Bill, there's a way, Bill, 
So listen to what I say. 


Are you a wobbly? then listen, Buddy, 
For the One Big Union beckons to you — 
The Worker's Union, the Industrial Union; 
Tell every slave you see along the line: 
It makes no difference what your color, 
Creed or sex or kind, 

If you are a worker, then it's kick right in and join. 
Become a wobbly and then well probably 
Free ourselves from slavery. 

You like the idea, but then you say, 
"How can we do it — when is the day?" 
When all the ladies and all the babies 
And every man who works for a wage 
Gets in the Union — One Union Grand — 
All hands together well* make our demand; 
When you and I, Bill, lay down our tools, Bill, 
Fold up your arms, Bill, and walk off the job. 

Why does a short work day and a long pay always ^ 


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Music by Rudolf von Liebich 
Words by Ralph Chaplin 
0, Labor Day, O, First of May, 

Welcome and honored on land and on sea. 
Winter so drear must disappear, 

Fair days are coming for you and for me. 
We, of the old world, building the New, 
Ours is the will and the power to do; 

Then let us sing, hail to the Spring — 
Hail to the Day we can strike to be free! 

Banner so red, high overhead, 

Hated and feared by the powers that be! 
In every land firmly we stand; 

Men of all nations who labor are we. 
Under one banner, standing as one, 
Claiming the earth ond our place in the sun. 

Then let us sing, hail to the Spring — 
Hail to the Day we can strike to be free! 

O, Labor Day, O, First of May, 

Warm with the gleam of the bright days to be! 
Join in the throng, fearless and strong — 

One mighty Union of world industry. 
Shoulder to shoulder, each in his place, 
Ours is the hope of the whole human race. 

Then let us sing, hail to the Spring — 
Hail to the Day we can strike to be free! 

Words and music of "We have Fed You All For a 
Thousand Years" can be obtained in attractive sheet 
form by applying to I. W. W. Publishing Bureau, Price 
25 cents. 

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(Tune: "Where the River Shannon Flows") 
Fellow workers pay attention to what I'm going to men- 

For it is the fixed intention of the Workers of the World. 
And I hope you'll all be ready, true-hearted, brave and 

To gather 'round our standard when the Red Flag is un- 


Where the Fraser river flows, each fellow worker knows, 
They have bullied and oppressed us, but still our Union 

And we're going to find a way, boys, for shorter hours 

and better pay, boys; 
And we're going to win the day, boys; where the river 

Fraser flows. 

For the gunny-sack contractors have all been dirty actors, 
And they're not our benefactors, each fellow worker 

So we've got to stick together in fine or dirty weather, 
And we will show no white feather, where the Fraser 
river flows. 

New the boss the law is stretching, bulls and pimps he's 

And they are a fine collection, as Jesus only knows. 
But why their mothers reared* them, and why the devil 
spared them, 

Are questions we can't answer, where the Fraser river 

Why should any worker be without the necessities of 
life when ten men can produce enough for a hundred? 


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By Ralph Cheney 
(To be sung to the tune of "Onword, Chistian Soldiers") 

Onward, One Big Union, 
Joy and justice led, 
With the Free Society 
Shining out ahead! 
Freedom, our one master, 
Leads against the foe. 

Forward unto battle 
We, the workers go. 
Onward, One Big Union, 
Joy and justice led, 
With the Free Society 
Shining out ahe a 

War and wrong shall perish 
Poverty shall cease. 
Hatred, wrath, and slavery 
Yield to joy and peace. 


Gates of jails can never 
Gainst our will prevail. 
We've the world's one power; 
And we cannot fail. 

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By G. G. Allen 
(Air: "Marching Through Georgia") 

Bring the good old red book, boys, well sing another song. 
Sing it to the wage slave who has not yet joined the 

Of the revolution that will sweep the world along, 
To One Big Industrial Union. 


Hooray! H#oray! The truth will make you free. 
Horray! Horray! When will you workers see? 
The only way you'll gain your economic liberty, 
Is One Big Industrial Union. 

Now the harvest String Trust they would move to Ger- 

The silk Bosses of Paterson, they also want to flee 
From strikes and labor troubles ,but they cannot get 

From One Big Industrial Union. 

You migratory workers of the common labor clan, 
We sing to you to join and be a fighting Union Man; 
You must emancipate yourself, you proletarian, 
With One Big Industrial Union. 


Hooray! Hooray! Let's set the wage slave free. 
Hooray! Hooray! With every victory 
Well hum the workers' an them till you finally must be 
In One Big Industrial Union. 

For every dollar the parasite has and didn't work for 
there's a slave who worked for a dollar he didn't get. 


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(Tune: "Portland County Jail") 
Fifty thousand lumberjacks, fifty thousand packs. 
Fifty thousand dirty rolls of blankets on their backs, 
Fifty thousand minds made up to strike and strike like 

For fifty years they've "packed" a bed, but never will 

Fifty thousand wooden bunks full of things that crawl; 
Fifty thousand restless men have left them once for all. 

One by one they dared not say, "Fat, the hours are long." 
If they did they'd hike — but now the're fifty thousand 

Fatty Rich, we know you're game, know your pride is 

Say — but why not be a man, and own when you are 

They've joined the One Big Union — Gee. For goodness 
sake, "get wise"! 

The more you try to buck them now the more they or- 

Take a tip and start right in — plan some cozy rooms, 
Six or eight spring beds in each, with towels, sheets and 

Shower baths for men who work keeps them well and fit. 
A laundry, too, and drying room, would help a little bit. 
Get some dishes, white and clean; good pure food to eat. 
See that cook has help enough to keep the table neat. 
Tap the bell for eight hours work; treat the boys like men, 
And fifty thousand lumberjacks may come to work again. 
Men who work should be well paid. "A man's a man for 
a' that." 

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Many a man has a home to keep same as yourself, Old 

Mothers, sisters, sweethearts, wives, children, too, galore, 
Stand behind the men to win this bread and butter war. 
"Such a lot of devils," that's what the papers say— 
"They've gone on strike for shorter hours and some in- 
crease in pay. 

They left the camps, the lazy tramps, they all walked out 
as one ; 

They say they'll win the strike or put the bosses on the 


(Written in his cell, November 18, 1915, on the eve of 
his execution) 

My will is easy to decide, 

For there is nothing to divide. 

My kin don't need to fuss and moan — 

"Moss does not cling to a rolling stone." 

My body? Ah, If I could choose, 

I would to ashes it reduce, 

And let the merry breezes blow 

My dust to where some flowers grow. 

Perhaps some fading flower then 

would come to life and bloom again. 

This is my last and final will. 

Good luck to all of you, 



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Air: Russian „IIOXOPOHHHft MAPIH"— Funeral March. 

Dying as soldiers fighting for Labor, so did you fall; 

An ofTring of your love for those who share the strife; 

Gladly you gave us talent and treasure; yielding your all. 

The honor of the world, your freedom and your life. 

Deeply you suffered nor shrunk from the grave — 

Judges and hangmen, the fate of the fray; 

Starved in dark dungeons, beaten and tortured — cheer- 
ful and brave — 

Defying chains and jails, you marched upon your way. 

Mad with their blood-lust, rich from our labor, exploiters 

In luxury and splendor; scornful of our power 
Sweeping to triumph, trusting no promise — Heaven or 

This song of sorrow sounds to them their fatal hour. 
Rise now we workers rebellious and bold; 
Tyrants no longer shall rule from above; 
We are the builders — no one shall suffer hunger and 
cold — 

We bring a world of beauty, liberty and love. 
Farewell true comrades, death now enfolds you — rest in 
the tomb; 

As sleeping there in peace you know no more of pain. 
Farewell, true comrades, we will remember you and your 

And Labor soon wilt prove that none have died in vain 
Farewell true comrades, we rise to the fight; 
O'er-sweeping all 'neath the banner ye bore, 
Slavery and sorrow vanish before us. Toilers Unite! 
To break your bonds and rule the world for evermore. 
(Repeat the last four lines of the last stanza.) 


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(Air: "Barcarolle." from the "Tales of Hoffman") 
By Gerard J. Lively 
You've fought your fight, a long good night 

Is all that we can say. 
Sleep on, sleep on, your work is done 

Brave fighter for the Day. 
Kind Mother Earth who gave you birth 

Receives you to her breast. 
For us the Fight, for you the night, 

The night of well earned rest, 
No more youH feel the cling of steel, 

You've burst the prison bars, 
You gave your life in this our strife, 

Brave conqueror of stars. 
Sleep on, sleep on, your work is done 
Sleep on, sleep on, sleep on. 

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(Tune: "Tho Green Field* of Dunmoor") 

By James J. Ferriter 
Come all you exploited workingmen 

And fight for Freedom's cause, 
For you are bound, both hand and foot, 

By capitalistic laws; 
Your voices you can raise no more, 

Your lips you now must seal, 
For if you rise to speak a word 

A gun-man's at your heel. 

Come on, unite, my hearty boys, 

And fight the common foe; 
The rustling card with all its faults 

This time must surely go. 
The "seven days" and "safety first," 

Alas, they are no more, 
So now's your time to fall in line 

At Freedom's onward roll. 

Our master is a "patriot" true, 

Red wealth he has galore, 
And all good things that Labor brings, 

He's locked up in his store; 
But if, like men, you'll organize, 

His reign will be no more, 
And he will go where he belongs 

A shoveling copper ore. 

Remember, then, the six hour day 

Must be our first demand; 
For miners from our ranks each day 

From death receive a call; 


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The miner's "con" you soon will see 

-Will lose its deadly pall, 
And we'll make this camp a grand old spot 

For the workers, one and all. 


(Tune: "Smiles") 

Workers, now I know, what will make the union grow 
Agitation, education, will defeat the foe. ' 
Workers don't you see you must make your own selves 

Do get wise and organize and strike for liberty. 

We'll no longer work for wages, we'll just take all we 

We have been wage slaves all through the ages 

We ourselves must break the fetters loose 

Then we will no longer heed the masters 

Our defiance at them we will hurl 

And we'll bid good bye to all wage slavery 

And the red flag we will unfurl. 

Masters boast in vain Bolshevism is on the wane 
But the shirkers will be workers- under Labors reign, 
Toilers don't despair; we have but to do our share, 
Agitating, educating, we must do and dare. 

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On the industrial battlefield of America there rages 
today one of the most sanguinary struggles that the 
world of labor has ever known. It is the age long strug- 
gle between the workers and the masters, quickened and 
intensified by awakening labor and the desire of the mas- 
ters to crush forever, organized efforts of the workers to 
better their conditions. 

Our previous appeals you have responded to generously, 
but perhaps you do not realize the stupendous task that 
confronts us. In Leavenworth we have more than a hun- 
dred members confined. In Omaha we have fifty or more 
to go to trial. In Kansas City, Kansas, thirty-six are to 
be tried. In Los Angeles the masters are demanding that 
fifteen more be sent to prison. In Sacramento and vi- 
cinity we have about a hundred, and there are hundreds 
more scattered throughout the country, all of whom must 
be defended. 

Every dollar spent in the defense of these class war 
prisoners is a step toward Industrial Democracy. We are 
putting our case, our principles and our program before 
the workers of the world. The result will be beneficial to 
us. Let us make this the last time that it will be necessary 
to appeal for funds to fight our battle in the courts. We 
can do it. The powers that are crying for the blood of our 
fellow workers are the enemies of all workers. 

We call upon you to do your utmost to help us raise 
funds. Protect yourself by protecting those who fight 
for you. Put your own name down for as large an amount 
as possible. Get your friends to contribute. Do not wait 
until it is too late. Do it today! 

Contributors will receive receipt for each remittance. 
Make all Money Orders and Checks payable to William 
D. Haywood, Secretary, General Defense Committee, 1001 
West Madison Street, Chicago, Illinois. 

There have been repeated requests for the I. W. W. 
SONGS WITH MUSIC in a more popular form. The 
following are the songs now ready, or on the press. This 
list will be added to from time to time. 

Each song is neatly printed on high grade paper in 
the form of a unique and very artistic pamphlet. The 
covers are of durable stock, of various shades of color. 
On each cover is an appropriate and stirring drawing re- 
presenting the spirit of the song. 

We Have Fed You Ail for a Thousand Years — 

Words by an Unknown Proletarian. 

Music by Rudolph von Liebich. 
Funeral Song of a Russian Revolutionist — 

Translation by Douglas and music by Rudolph von 

The Advancing Proletaire — 

Words by Douglas. Music by Rudolph von Liebich. 
Don't Take My Papa Away from Me — 

Words and music by Joe Hill. 
The Rebel Girl- 
Words and Music by Joe Hill. 
Workers of the World, Awaken! — 

Words and music by Joe Hill. 

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